


nehushtan

by sleepdrunk



Series: sunday [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blanket Permission, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:13:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22994506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepdrunk/pseuds/sleepdrunk
Summary: Crowley valued efficiency in all things sin. A slothful approach to tarnishing souls-- a masterstroke. He would always protest the idea that he wanted to be a demon, that he had really done anything to deserve eternity as one of Hell’s own, but you’d never hear him denying how much fun there was to be had.He rather hated to see souls destroyed on the same path he had taken. After all, what were a few questions? No, his favourites were those pricks that were bloody well going to do what they were going to do anyway. Humans had come up with their shitty, stinky, over-industrialized modern hellscape all on their own. All he had to do was push.
Series: sunday [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1652557
Kudos: 3





	nehushtan

**Author's Note:**

> a cut scene/timestamp from _sunday_

All things considered, Crowley wasn’t terribly good at tempting human souls directly into sin.

Hedonism, however, was another story.

“What? ‘S not like it’s gonna kill anybody,” he slurs, leaning heavily on the wooden table in some dark medieval tavern.

* * *

The best line for a lark, and the one with the biggest payoff was, “what’s stopping you?”

Crowley valued efficiency in all things sin. A slothful approach to tarnishing souls-- a masterstroke. He would always protest the idea that he wanted to be a demon, that he had really done anything to deserve eternity as one of Hell’s own, but you’d never hear him denying how much fun there was to be had.

He rather hated to see souls destroyed on the same path he had taken. After all, what were a few questions? No, his favourites were those pricks that were bloody well going to do what they were going to do anyway. Humans had come up with their shitty, stinky, over-industrialized modern hellscape all on their own. All he had to do was push.

Taxes were a good start. Whisper sweet nothings into a particularly slimy, toad-faced little shit of a senator, and there you were. Bonus points if it was a religious man.

Enter Senator Avaricious. Lowered taxes for the extremely wealthy. His silver spoon shined for the day, he would go off and rub elbows (and other extremities) with those who were waiting in the wings for their bidding to be done, cash in hand-- and by God would that senator be proud. Strike one.

The billionaires would profit. They’d roll around in their fat stacks, stuff their faces with-- caviar, or something, Crowley hadn’t been keeping up with what was disgusting and rarified in this day and age. Lovely. That’s gluttony taken care of. Soon after, a gaggle of the greased palms would be off to pay someone to put up with their nasty sexual proclivities. _Porneia_.

At first, Crowley thought that that was as far as a day’s work could reach. But oh, how wrong he was. Turns out, extreme wealth had a real talent for bringing envy out to play, and play she did. She ran around, blackening hearts. And the more hearts turned to ashy coal in the cavities of men, a curious phenomenon occurred. The people who thought that Senator Avarice was just fine got real proud of their country all of a sudden. Riots broke out. The _orgē_ reared his head, and those with wrath in their hearts lit torches. Smashed headlights. Screams rang out in dark alleys on rainy nights and bruises bloomed and someone spat blood onto the wet pavement.

Crowley washed his hands and thought of Pilate.


End file.
